Authors: Colin Forbes
Tags: #Tweed (Fictitious Character), #Insurgency, #Suspense, #Fiction
'Yes. Once in a bar in Brussels. He caught me looking
at him and I think he's a man who remembers people.
Shouldn't you have some protection, with Delgado's mob
casing the area?'
'Got a shotgun under the bar. Illegal. But not if Delgado
ever comes in, waving that knife about. We'd better get
back so I can help out Millie.'
'Did Bert make a list of the targets here and in the West
End that Delgado was interested in?'
'He did.'
'Could I have a copy?'
'Course you can. I'll borrow it off Bert now. Can't think why you want it but you keeps yourself to yourself. Then,
you're a smart lady . . .'
Customers were filling up the pub but Lisa was able to go
to the end of the bar by herself. She copied Bert's list, then
used the phone to call Tweed again. The same nice woman
answered, regretted that Tweed was out again, asked if he
could call her.
'I'll try again later, thank you . . .'
Tweed and Paula went inside Marlows, an obscure club
located on Pall Mall alongside more prestigious establishments. Tweed was asking the porter if Mr Gavin Thunder
had arrived when a small well-dressed man in a grey suit
appeared in the hall. Well-built, he couldn't have been
more than five feet four inches tall, Paula estimated, and he
exuded physical energy as he held out a hand, smiling.
'Welcome, Tweed. Too long since we last met. And
this must be the hyper-efficient Miss Paula Grey. And an
attractive lady, if I may say so.'
'Thank you,' replied Paula as she shook his firm, mus
cled hand. 'I don't know about hyper-efficient but I get
by.'
'With flying colours, according to many who know you.
Shall we adjourn to the library? Very quiet in there. I'll lead the way . . .'
He was just as she'd expected. In his forties, he had
dark brown hair, a high forehead, a commanding nose,
a strong mouth. He walked rapidly and had an aura of
amiability that put people at their ease. His most striking
feature were his eyes, intense blue eyes that looked straight
at you.
They followed him into a room lined with bookcases
from floor to ceiling. The room was deserted except for a
waiter and Thunder sat them at a small table circled with comfortable arm chairs.
'Coffee for everyone?' he suggested and nodded to the waiter. He sat forward, hands clasped in his lap, looked
from one guest to the other.
'Got your reports, Tweed, as I said on the phone. Read
both of them.' He spoke rapidly, like a man with an agile brain. 'Doesn't seem to be any doubt about what happened
to poor Jeremy Mordaunt. Murder.'
'I'm afraid it was,' agreed Tweed and fell silent.
'What worries me, frankly,' Thunder continued when
he realized Tweed was not going to say any more, 'is the
inquest. It will, of course, be held at Eastbourne. That
might just keep most of the press away. The government
can do without yet another scandal.'
He kept quiet as the waiter returned and served the coffee. He only resumed speaking when the door had
closed . . .
'Incidentally, I'm Gavin. Have I your permission to
call you Paula? Thank you. I get so fed up with being
addressed as "Minister".' He smiled. 'I feel like looking
round to make sure I'm not in church.'
Paula chuckled and Thunder waved both hands as much as to say what a world we live in. He stared at Tweed, his
expression grave.
'May I ask you a personal question? If you don't want to
reply I'll quite understand.' He leaned forward again. 'At
the inquest will you be telling the coroner you are still pur
suing your investigations and request an adjournment?'
'I'm going to do exactly that.'
'Thank you for answering - between the three of us
only.'
'Am I then to assume,' Tweed began, his voice sharper,
'that I am still in charge of the investigation? That would
be most unusual.'
'You are to assume that, yes. I know it's unusual - there are people who would call it irregular. But there could be political implications, now we know it was murder. You
see, Jeremy was very bright technically.' He paused. 'I have
again to ask you to keep this just between the three of us.' He paused. 'A couple of days before Jeremy travelled to Alfriston he discovered my office was bugged.'
'And you'd discussed confidential matters in that room?' asked Tweed.
'Heavens, yes, I had. Thought I was safe there. So Jeremy removed all the listening devices. I decided not to report it to anyone.'
'Why?'
'Because I was beginning to wonder who I
could
trust.'
'Even among Cabinet members?'
'If you don't mind, I'd sooner not answer that question.
But I've been doing all the talking. Have you something
you'd like to ask me?'
'Yes, I have. Do you know why Jeremy Mordaunt
travelled down to Alfriston? Who he was going to see?'
'I have absolutely no idea. I kept him on a loose rein -
he was clever and wouldn't tell me certain things until he
had the complete story. I have made enquiries.'
'What about?'
'Discreetly, about who lives in that part of the world. So
far I have only come up with Lord Barford. But since he gave up the job as chief of the Special Branch hasn't he retired?'
'One would expect him to have done that.'
'Oh, there is something else.' Thunder checked his
Rolex watch. 'I'll have to go shortly. A Cabinet meeting.'
He looked at Paula and smiled. 'You wouldn't care to
come and keep me company - to prevent me from being bored stiff?'
'I don't think they'd welcome me,' she said, returning
his smile.
'Before we go,' Tweed said, 'what was the something
else?'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd liaise with Chief Inspector Roy
Buchanan about your investigations. It would go some way
to regularizing the situation.'
'I was going to do that anyway.'
They left the library. Thunder collected his coat, and they walked into the street. As they did so a limo pulled
up at the kerb. Thunder swore, apologized to Paula.
'I did tell them to send an ordinary car for me. All this
pomp and circumstance is so idiotic. Now, thank you both
so much for giving me your time. And I've enjoyed your company.' He whispered the rest as the chauffeur opened
the door with a flourish. 'Which is more than I expect to
do when I get back to Downing Street. . .'
'You have your lunch with Aubrey Barford,' Tweed
reminded her as the limo moved off. 'Is there time for
us to walk up St James's Street before you get a taxi?'
'Yes, there is.' They began to stroll. 'Well, that surprised
me. I expected him to rave.'
'He can, I've heard. If a subordinate isn't quick enough
or forgets something. And Thunder is the right name for him when he's speaking in the House of Commons. A magnificent orator. I've heard gossip that there's a cabal
of Ministers plotting to remove the present PM - so they
can instal Thunder in his place.'
'What did you think of his story about Jeremy locating
and then removing the bugs from his office?' queried
Paula.
'Gavin Thunder has an ingenious brain.'
CHAPTER 5
At about the time Tweed and Paula entered Marlows a
helicopter landed at Heathrow. Two passengers emerged
and parted company as the sun came out. Both were
men of the same height and in their forties. Here the
similarity ended.
The athletic man with blond hair that gleamed in the
sunshine boarded the motorized passenger trolley which
had driven out as the chopper was landing. He radiated
wealth. Clad in an Armani suit, he wore Gucci shoes, a Chanel tie and carried an expensive brief-case.
Once aboard the executive jet and settled in his seat
he heard the engines starting up. An attractive stewardess
brought him a glass of champagne and he leaned back to
enjoy himself. The pilot had earlier filed a flight plan for
Schiphol Airport near Amsterdam.
The flight took less than an hour. Landing at Schiphol,
the passenger left the machine and stepped into a waiting
limo. It drove him to the best hotel in the city where he
alighted while the chauffeur, who had collected his case which had been aboard the jet before he'd arrived, handed
it to a porter.
He registered at the desk. Victor Rondel. Once alone in his suite he noted with satisfaction a bottle of champagne
waiting in an ice bucket. He went into the bathroom,
locked the door.
Removing the blond wig carefully, he exposed thick dark
hair. He checked the time. Have a sleep here first, he decided, then a good dinner downstairs. When it was nightfall he would leave the hotel and wander down a
certain street Amsterdam was famous for. Beautiful girls,
wearing very little, would be sitting in showcase windows.
He would take his time selecting the one he preferred.
Earlier, back at Heathrow, the other passenger who had
alighted from the helicopter strode across the field towards
his terminal, carrying an ordinary case. He wore a beret and a dark overcoat as he
stepped it out. When the pas
senger trolley returned from the jet he climbed aboard and was transported to the terminal. He showed his passport in the name of Rene Pinaud and was just in time to board his next flight.
It was a boring trip of about fifty minutes to his destination. Glancing now and then out of the window he saw nothing but a sea of cloud. He refused all refreshments. When the plane landed he was among the first off. After passing swiftly through the formalities he climbed inside
a company car waiting for him. It drove him to the area
for private planes and he boarded the twelve-passenger Gulfstream private jet. Its interior had been luxuriously
refurbished and he sank with relief into a leather armchair.
The male steward in a fresh white uniform approached him. He spoke in German.
'Would sir like something to drink?'
'Just a brandy,' the passenger replied in the same language.
'Also a bottle of mineral water. Flying dehydrates . . .'
When the steward returned, his passenger had removed
the beret he had worn pulled down tightly over his head.
He took out a mirror and combed his blond hair.
'Something to eat also, sir?' the steward enquired.